


The Real First

by throughtheparadox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:10:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughtheparadox/pseuds/throughtheparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belgravia wasn't the first time Sherlock met The Woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Real First

Second year in the university and things are already proving themselves to be boring. Sherlock rolled his eyes, watching the ticking clock of the classroom as if it was a time bomb.

“Hey! Any plans tonight?” he heard someone ask, turning only to see Victor Trevor by his side with a huge grin plastered on his face. Sherlock scoffed.

“You know the answer to that.” he simply replied. Victor frowned.

Sherlock gathered his books and raised his eyebrows at his friend, who just shrugged and walked by him. They were polar opposites—Victor always radiating energy and optimism which Sherlock believed he will never have. Still, one thing that made him connect to Victor was the fact that they were both interested in chemistry, philosophy and interesting cases. Also, for some reason, people seemed to repel him— something they also do Sherlock.

Fun tandem, aren’t we? Sherlock thought.

Victor placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, only to take it back after Sherlock glared at him. “What are you on about?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the unusual jumpiness of his companion.

“You tell me. You’re the genius.” Victor challenged, smiling goofily.

Sherlock gave him a once over, shaking his head. “A party? Victor, you know how I feel about nonsense attempts to socialise. And judging by that invitation peeking out of your planner, it’s a ball of some sorts. You have been shopping. Seriously?”

Victor grinned wider, nodding. “It will be fun! It’s my distant cousin’s birthday this Saturday and as you know, I don’t have any friends… Just one.”

Sherlock stared at him before responding. “Oh you mean me?”

“Of course, you prick.” Victor replied, laughing. “You don’t have to talk to anyone. Well, apart from me, that is. Or you can ignore me as well. Just come.”

“Then what is the use of me being there if I won’t talk to you?” Sherlock replied, exasperated.

Victor sighed. “Moral support?” he shoved the invitation on Sherlock’s pocket, giving him a thumbs up. “Please?”

Sherlock grunted, muttering a curse under his breath. Victor smiled. “That’s settled then.”

***

“Ready?” Victor asked from driver’s seat. Sherlock slid by the passenger seat, straightening his necktie like it was an inconvenience.

“Let’s just get this over with. I left some eyeballs in the microwave.” He mused, blowing a loose strand off his forehead. Victor threw something over at his lap and he picked it up, blue eyes widening in disgust. A mask.

“Knowing that you didn’t read the invitation, I figured I would grab your mask for you.” Victor simply said, revving up the engine and driving away.

After a silent ride (with occasional huffing from Sherlock), they arrived in front of a glorious hall full of people in fancy ball gowns and tailcoats and glittering masks.

“I’m just going to park this, okay? I’ll meet you inside.” Victor shouted, leaving Sherlock by the front steps of the hall. Sherlock wanted to raise a protest, but his annoyance got the better of him. Wanting to get the night over with, he strapped on his mask and trudged his way into the party.

Paving his way into a corner, Sherlock did what he did best: watch people and deduce something about them. Too many snooty pretenders, secret affairs, it was textbook—he was already bored. Where the hell was Victor anyway?

Sherlock walked over and grabbed himself a glass of whiskey, escaping to the balcony, away from everyone else. This was a bad idea anyway. He hated people— why was he even here?

“Quite an outcast, aren’t you?” he heard someone say. He turned and saw a girl, dressed in a black and red laced ball gown, her grey eyes hidden behind a feathered mask, red lips curved to a smile. “Are you gonna finish that?” she asked, walking over him, taking the glass from his hand.

Sherlock stared at her, a lump forming in his throat. He tried to deduce something about her, only to find his thoughts clouded by the thrumming in his chest. “You call me an outcast and yet, you’re here in a secluded balcony away from everyone else.” he simply said, averting his eyes away from her grey eyes.

Freeing her bouffant into loose curls above her shoulders, she laughed softly, the glass on her lips. “There’s a difference between being an outcast and choosing to separate yourself from the world.”

Sherlock found himself nodding at her words. She was so close that he could see the way her dress glittered in the moonlight, the expression in her eyes lost and sad compared to the smile she had painted on her face. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I don’t even know the celebrant. Only came as a favour to a friend.”

“Oh. Well, now you know her.” she replied, extending her hand. “Welcome to my birthday celebration, which has proven to be less and less interesting to both the guests and myself.”

Sherlock was unsure of what to reply so he just took her hand. “My apologies.”

She smiled. “No need for that. It is a horrific thing, isn’t it? I’d rather stay here than pretend that I like or even care about any of them.”

Sherlock watched her, the way her gaze was suddenly fixed far away. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by her, by the way she captured his exact thoughts as if she was a missing page in his life. She caught his stare and she grabbed his hand, her smile widening at his surprised expression.

“Would you like to leave? Explore someplace else for the night?” she asked, already leading him to a stairwell heading out into the woods. “Oh! And keep the mask on.”

He doesn’t know how she had the ability to freeze every muscle in his body, like he was a third person watching himself to be dragged into the darkness. The girl’s hand was warm against his own, her dress ruffling against the grass. Suddenly, she pulled to a stop, her hand suddenly pulling him closer.

“Do you like to dance?” she asked, facing him, her breathing hard. “I decided to flee tonight, never to come back to this place again. I hate the monotony, the idiocy— I’d like to make my way into the world on my own. But a last dance wouldn’t hurt, now would it?”

Sherlock felt an aching in his chest as soon as she heard her words. If only he had that courage, he would’ve left too. The world seemed so mundane to him, so exasperatingly cold and harsh. Surprisingly, the thought of this intriguing girl leaving made his heart clench even more. Has it only been an hour?

“Where would you go?” he muttered, his eyes trying to search for hers amidst the darkness of the night.

“I don’t know yet. But that’s the amazing part, isn’t it? Not knowing?” she replied.

Sherlock shook his head. “I always found comfort in reading people, knowing things. People are predictable and that is one of their many flaws.”

The girl laughed. “And what did you find out me since we met earlier?”

“I—-” Sherlock was about to say, before the girl planted a kiss on his lips.

“And did you predict I would do that?” she asked and he could swear she was laughing at him.

Sherlock felt heat rise up his face, almost grateful for the lack of light for his face was sure to be red. He chose his words carefully in his head, but decided a simple answer was best. “No… No, I didn’t.”

“I hope I get to meet you again someday. You’re an interesting fellow.” she said, brushing his face softly with her finger. “I know you didn’t plan on dancing tonight but by the state of the shoes you’re wearing, I think you are quite a fair dancer.” she mused, placing Sherlock’s hand on her waist.

“I suppose I am.” he replied. 

Sherlock smiled for the first time that night, letting this mysterious girl sway him in their musicless dance floor. She rested her head on his chest as she hummed and Sherlock worried that she might feel how much his heart was pounding. If she did notice, she didn’t say.

For what seemed like an eternity they danced until she reached up to him once more, giving him a more passionate kiss before releasing herself from his arms. Sherlock reached for her face, wanting to take her mask off but she stopped him.

“This is how I want you to remember me.” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. “I believe this is goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” Sherlock said, frustrated that he didn’t even get to know her name. Still, he believed it was for the best— a mystery girl that will always remain to be his unsolved case. He wouldn’t even allow such an idea if it was about another thing, but for this girl—this woman— he was surprised that he was willing to make an exception.

He watched as she disappeared into the night, nothing but her ball gown, high heels and wits. Sherlock found himself thinking if she would be okay but he figured she would survived. She was strong and admirable, someone he would bury deep down in his mind palace, but never to delete.

Victor asked him the day after where he went but Sherlock simply told him he got bored and left early. It was a secret between him and that girl— a treasured memory he would keep.

He had never spoken of anyone about that night, never have thought about it for years until he found himself staring into familiar grey eyes that day in Belgravia. He figured just like the first time they met, she was still wearing a mask— similar to the one he was unsuccessful to take off that night in the masquerade ball. After all these years, she still remained to be a mystery.

But the only difference is that now, at least Sherlock can put a name to her.

Irene Adler is no longer that girl. She is The Woman.


End file.
